


A Solution for a Change

by elwinglyre



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-03-04 08:26:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13360485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre
Summary: It’s Christmas Eve, and all is not right with the world, especially not with Sherlock’s. In this after S4ish AU, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson haven’t met, Lestrade and Mycroft are in a stable relationship and sometimes genius needs to take a holiday.Thank you to MrBotanyB for the beta!Written forSherlock Challenge's! January 2018 challenge "Change"





	1. Chapter 1

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Today, Dec. 24, 5:03 PM

**Sherlock’s housekeeper has gone for holidays. Sherlock is at loose ends. MH**

**Sorry, no cases. GL**

**He is ignoring my calls. MH**

**He is ignoring my texts. GL**

**Danger night. MH**

**Will pick him up for Bart’s Christmas party. GL**

**After? MH**

**Come get him. Take him straight to your Mum’s. GL**

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No snow, no tree (not that he’d ever want one) and no landlady bearing gifts. That meant no tea. Or biscuits. Or coffee.

The bell rang over his head as he entered, and the sea of last minute shoppers stretched before him. The infernal muzak piped “Let it Snow” as Sherlock stomped the slush off his feet. He despised waiting in lines. He’d rather be home in his Mind Palace where Silent Night was a Holy Night rather than listening to drivel and simple-minded chit chat at eleven-thirty in the morning at Starbucks on Christmas Eve. This was too high a price to pay even for caffeine. His mobile vibrated. Ahh, Lestrade! Finally a case! That would be a true Christmas gift, not some ugly sweater Mummy knitted or leather gloves from Mycroft. He thumbed through the texts, dull Christmas party invitations: **Please come. GL**. Not what he wanted from Lestrade. Give him the gift that keeps giving! Mayhem. Murder. Not a room full of imbeciles drinking spiked eggnog.

Alone for Christmas didn’t bother him. Not at all. He done it for years. What was another holiday alone? He always had something special stashed if it got too bad.

After waiting eight minutes, he decided coffee was not essential and left the shop. Certainly he could brew a pot. He _was_ a genius. And Mrs. Hudson said to help himself to what was left in the kitchen before she left yesterday on holiday to her sister’s. He’d simply let himself into her apartment downstairs.

He opened the door to misery. Mistletoe tormented him, holly and festive lights mocked him, and the twinkling tinsel tortured him.

She knew him too well and was more than a landlady. She’d selected the best blend and set it all out for him. It tasted satisfactory. He took a seat near the tree, sipped his coffee, and nibbled on her homemade chocolate biscuits she left out in neat little stacks on her best holiday tray. He sighed and closed his eyes. He missed her insistence that he eat at least some toast and beans, then bring him a plate filled with roast beef, potatoes and carrots instead. He missed _her._ She was his lifeboat on the sea of tedium.

Empty boredom ruled, flat and banal and nondescript. That was his life between cases, a never ending yawn. Upstairs, hidden under his floorboard was salvation of a sort. Although he’d promised her he wouldn’t, his thumb worried the cup in wretched circles. His mobile vibrated as if to underline the insipid monotony. Barts. Singing Carols. Toasting goodwill. Acting jolly. Fa la la la la. Worst yet: hugging. He shuddered.

Today, Dec. 24, 6:49 PM

**Not taking no for an answer. GL  
**

He didn’t want to go, but if he didn’t show, Lestrade would make good on his promise and drag him there. Best to go early before the idiots became inebriated and completely obnoxious. He texted Lestrade back with one last appeal.

**Any case above a four will do. SH**

**No cases. It’s Christmas Eve! Even death takes a holiday. GL**

**Be ready in 5 minutes. I am almost there. GL**

Ah. Lestrade to rescue. No doubt his brother’s doing.

**Not staying. SH**

**Yes you are, Mr. Scrooge. No cases for you later if you disappear. :) GL**

Sherlock rolled his eyes but got his coat and scarf. Before he left and shut her door, he glanced up the stairs with a touch of relief. It could rest beneath the floorboards for another night. As soon as he stepped into the street, he lit a cigarette and filled his lungs with a long drag. He must research why that first nicotine hit of the day was almost as good as coke. An experiment of a sort, if needs must.

A shame to snuff it out so fast, but Lestrade was parked in front of Speedy’s and rudely honking the horn. Sherlock ducked inside.

The ride to Bart’s was a torture chamber of neverending blather. _Geoff_ droned on regarding Mycroft and Christmas and New Years. Sherlock thought seriously about opening the door and flinging himself into traffic. Once at Barts, it went from worse to intolerable. There was possibly nothing as boring as this party, but once Sherlock eliminated the impossible, whatever remained, no matter how improbable, must be the truth, and the truth was that the eggnog was horrible and the company atrocious. He discarded the vile concoction for a tumbler of respectable scotch that Lestrade offered him while he made insufferable small talk. The least the lieutenant could do was to talk about homicide, but Lestrade refused.

Sherlock decided he’d stay another twenty minutes before making excuses. Or not, and just leave. Most likely Lestrade was following orders from Mycroft to keep him “occupied.” As part of the grand distraction, Molly strolled up to him for the third time in twenty-two minutes. Predictable. Always, always, always, keeping the addict from his fix. Really! They needed better hobbies.

“You should mingle more,” she said, bouncing around in her red holiday party dress with garish glittery elf hat.

“Why?”

She barked out a laugh and slapped his arm, beaming at him. “Sherlock. Don’t be such a stick in the mud! Have some fun! After all, you look so nice tonight.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I always look nice.”

“I know! But tonight you’re especially handsome. You need to mix it up! Let’s play that game you like,” she said, the fuzzy ball at the end of the hat bobbing over one eye.

“I do not like games.”

“Nonsense. Yes you do! You play them all the time! Not most people’s kind of fun, but there is one game of yours that I enjoy: the one where you deduce people! You love that, I love that!”

Sherlock thought he must be slipping or the scotch was going to his head. Molly was in much higher spirits than she first appeared; normally she never would have suggested such a thing.

Then he realized how truly brilliant Molly was when intoxicated! He would most probably be asked to leave if he deduced people at the party! He threw back the rest of the scotch and licked his lips. He much preferred stimulants, but this would do. The burn was most gratifying. Shouldn’t take long to get thrown out.

“To make it interesting,” she said, "I’ll take your arm, and we’ll walk around, and you can deduce people who stop and talk to us at random.”

“Nothing in life is random,” Sherlock said, to which Molly rolled her eyes.

“Let’s get you another drink before we begin…” she said taking another tumbler from a nearby tray and handing it to him.

My, God, Sherlock thought as he threw back another, Molly _is_ brilliant!

The first couple they walked up to was too easy. A Mr. and Mrs. Oliver Channing. The silver fox, Mr. Channing, dressed conservatively in a grey Brooks Brothers suit and a nondescript white dress shirt with the exception of a ridiculous Christmas light-up tie. His wife wore a vulgar candy cane striped cocktail dress with bosoms packed so tight that her tinsel necklace gasped for breath in her cleavage. As she tapped her bright red pumps to “Deck the Halls,” Sherlock was certain that Hell was a Christmas party.

“You left the priesthood for this woman, who felt such obligation that she married you a mere two months afterward,” Sherlock began. “For a time you were the unattainable forbidden fruit, and you held allure for her, but after she lured you from the church, the thrill of temptation turned to banal obligation. Not long after, her head turned back to the thrill of the chase. Don’t feel too disappointed, she does care. A bit. After all she is waiting until after the holidays to inform you.”

Trembling, she clutched her matching red bag in her hand, then swung it, hitting Sherlock with a mighty crack in the face. He rubbed his cheek as Mr. Channing stood in front of them.

“She carries two bottles of nail polish and a compact in that bag,” Sherlock said, stretching his jaw. “I do believe that may leave a bruise.” He looked to Mr. Channing. “Don’t look so shocked. I didn’t tell you anything you didn’t already know.”

“I suppose I should thank you. No more pretenses,” he sighed. “I think we shall be leaving...or I shall.”

“That could have gone better,” Molly said, leaning on Sherlock as she watched Mr. Channing hobble off, head down.

“Let’s try again, shall we?” he suggested as they wandered over to another couple, Sherlock leading the way this time. He was surprised Molly was still with him.

“My friend likes to deduce people,” Molly said with a hiccup. “He doesn’t mean any harm.”

“My,” said the man’s date, “that’s an odd introduction.”

Sherlock completely ignored the woman since he was too busy studying the man beside her.

“Bisexual. Recently divorced. One child. Daughter, blonde curly hair. Doctor. You work here at Barts. Ah, a family doctor with a military past! Army. Shot in combat. Iraq or Afghanistan?”

“Afghanistan! Why, that’s brilliant!”

“Bisexual?” his date murmured as Molly giggled.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, offhandedly to his date. “I can assure you that the good doctor has barely taken his eyes off my mouth for a moment, and his attention is divided between your ample bosoms and my derriere.” Her shocked eyes moved to her date, who blinked when caught staring at Sherlock’s lips.

Sherlock half expected to get punched, but instead, the doctor gazed down in fascination into his pint, the right side of his mouth slightly upturned.

“Your date for the evening,” he said to the doctor with a flourish that surprised even himself. Why did he feel the need to impress this man? “She owns a cat. No...two cats. A yellow tabby and a tiger. She’s a receptionist and works here, no doubt how you met.”

Sherlock hesitated, and pressed his index finger to his mouth before he began again. He really shouldn’t, but he simply couldn’t help himself. “She has serious separation issues and is just coming off a rather messy affair with a surgeon who works on the same floor as hers. He’s married with children, of course. Now separated. She’s been stalking him, still is. He is standing over there by the way,” Sherlock pointed to a handsome gentleman near the punch bowl. The woman stared at Sherlock open-mouthed, then snapped her jaw shut, bright-red lips pressed in a straight line.

Sherlock turned back to the doctor as if he just reported the weather. “That’s why she agreed to come with you tonight, to spy on her ex. Sorry.”

“You should be!” Molly said.

“This was your idea,” Sherlock snapped back at her. Now why ever did he say he was sorry? Look at the trouble it causes! That was the reason Sherlock Holmes never said that word. Until tonight. He decided scotch wasn’t such a good idea after all as he got another.

“You told him to suss me out?!” the woman said to John, then turned to Molly. “And you! You are despicable,” the woman spat in Sherlock’s face, then rushed out of the room, but not without making a show of crying hysterically near the punch bowl.

“No need to follow. Watch,” Sherlock told John. All three observed the unfolding drama: the concerned attention of her ex, the muffled sobs of his stalker, the dash to follow her out of the room.

“Ah, meant for each other,” Sherlock observed.

“I must say that you’re good,” the doctor said, hardly phased at all. “Wrong on one point though. My wife passed away. It’s been almost three years now.”

“Always something. Sorry.” Sorry? That was twice in three minutes, he thought as he skeptically eyed the scotch.

“Yes,” the doctor said, “there is. The name is Watson, John Watson.” He reached out and shook Sherlock’s hand and let the contact linger a few seconds longer than necessary, at least it was longer than Sherlock generally tolerated.

Sherlock smiled. It was the first real smile he’d had in some time. Who was this John Watson? Handsome. Deceptively unassuming. Every inch demanded minute inspection. He smelled like danger and looked like a cuddly puppy.

“I need a cigarette, care to step outside?” Sherlock asked, ignoring Molly as he handed her his empty glass. She gave him a wink before turning to go speak to Lestrade. This was crazy. He was trying to pick up this John Watson. He didn’t pick up men. Certainly not men at irksome Christmas parties.

“I don’t smoke myself, but some fresh air might be good.”

They walked out side by side as Lestrade and Molly watched from the other side of the room. The brisk December air gave Sherlock an odd pang of deja vu. He’d never taken much stock in that notion, just his brain fact-checking its memory.

“How long have you worked here?” Sherlock asked, lighting his cigarette and inhaling.

“I thought you could tell me that.”

“I’d say at least five years. Odd that I haven’t seen you, but I doubt you have much business in the morgue.”

“Six. And no, I don’t.”

Then this John Watson laughed, and it tempted him like Sherlock imagined a male siren might.

“That’s how you know Miss Hooper,” Watson said with a hint of a smile. “She’s a nice young woman. I think she has a bit of a crush on you, not that I blame her.”

It unravelled Sherlock to hear this man’s deceptive innocence when beneath clearly this John Watson was bewitching and uncommon.

“You were a surgeon, but the shoulder injury took that from you. You miss it.”

“Yes, I miss being a surgeon.”

“No. You miss the war,” Sherlock said, resting his back against the wall and staring into the fire of his cigarette. “Being in drama, the suspense, the danger.”

“God, it’s like you know me. This is incredible. My friend Mike Stamford told me about you, how you could tell people about themselves with a look. You solve crimes. I read about you in the paper. That Moriarty chap framed you, and you jumped off the roof here and faked your death to put away a crazy man and his organization. But something’s missing...where’s your hat?”

“I hate that hat. I rarely wear it.”

“You look good in it,” Watson said, stepping closer and bumping Sherlock’s shoulder with an electric charge. “Actually, you’d probably look good in a rubbish bag.”

“Why would I ever want to wear that?”

“You’re right, you shouldn’t. It would be a shame for you to never wear that red shirt you have on. It strains in all the right places,” he said with a wink.

Watson’s head jerked up.  A homeless man, old coat with frayed cuffs soiled from sleeping in alleys, limped along with his hands thrust conspicuously in his pockets. He stopped few feet in near them, hesitated, then came into their space, his gloved hand now visible. A switchblade glinted in his fist, pointed directly at Sherlock’s chest. The streetlamp cast long shadows against the wall.

“Give me all your money, and that fancy watch.” The man’s head jerked toward Sherlock’s wrist. His face shadowed and his hand shook, making the blade flicker in the lamplight.

“I will not,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and said. “You need a fix and soon. I can acquire one for you with little trouble. Hand me the knife.” Sherlock opened his palm, long fingers curling “come to me.”

The man frowned and leaned forward into the light, eyes blank and emotionless. “No. You and your punter friend hand over everything. Your money. Watch. Any other valuables.”

In a blink, Watson leapt forward, deflecting the knife as he slashed out. With a yank of the attacker’s arm, Watson slammed him to the pavement, switchblade clattering. With a swift kick, Watson sent the blade into the street.

“I must say, that was impressive, Watson. You used the assailant’s momentum to your advantage.”

“John, call me John.” He frowned down at the homeless man, sprawled on wet pavement. “What should we do with him?”

“Take pity on the poor sod. He’s in a bad way.”

He watched as John stepped next the homeless man. “Pretty gracious of you since he wanted to gut you.”

“That happens a lot,” Sherlock said, kneeling down on the other side of him and looking the man in the face.

“I bet it does.” John Watson scratched the back of his neck and smiled down at Sherlock.

“I know a lot of homeless people. You could say I’ve had close personal experience with the lifestyle. Not familiar with this man, however.”

“That’s an interesting story, I’m sure.”

Sherlock’s attention turned to the man on the pavement. “Hospital? No?” Sherlock asked, but the man furiously shook his head. Sherlock stood, then looked into John’s face. Expressive. Open. He might be cute as a puppy but he had the bite of a bulldog.

“No doctors. Leave me alone,” the man said gruffly.

Sherlock nodded as John helped him to lean the man against the wall. John bent over and patted him on the cheek, then checked his eyes and pulse.

“You’re a doctor!” the man shouted.

“Yes. This is Barts. And I’ll leave you alone, and my only prescription to you is to knock off trying to rob people. You’re bloody awful at it,” John said. He stood up, rolling his bad shoulder.

“I could take him in,” Lestrade said stepping from behind them.

“Not necessary,” Sherlock said, picking up the switchblade and pocketing it. “Doctor Watson, Lieutenant Lestrade.”

“John,” he said, shaking Lestrade’s hand.

“Gregory. Nice night for armed robbery.”

“Perfect night,” Sherlock said with a glance at the good doctor.

“Need a ride?” Lestrade asked.

“No. Good evening, Geoffrey.”

“Good evening, Sherlock. See you at your Mum’s tomorrow.”

“Mum’s?” John said. “Is he related to you?”

Sherlock shivered. “I should hope not, for his sake.”

John laughed. “That sounds like another long story. I’d love to hear some of them. Want to grab a bite?” John looked up into the night sky. It was beginning to come down in big, wet flakes. “I planned on taking my date out, but guess that’s not happening.”

“I could tell you a story or two. A bite would be nice. I suddenly feel famished,” Sherlock said, ignoring Lestrade’s raised eyebrows. “I know a place not far from here. Angelo’s.”

“Nice to meet you, John. Good evening, Sherlock.”  Lestrade turned and walked back into Barts.

Sherlock realized he’d never smoked his cigarette. He’d let it burn down and discarded it. He didn’t even miss it.

They walked in companionable silence. Sherlock could almost recall a time he felt like this. As a child, Christmas morning. What was that he felt? Happiness? It was December, the night before Christmas, and he was walking next to a broken soldier and doctor. And he felt happy. This John Watson was the most amazing man he’d ever met.

“Not family. Then a friend of yours?” John finally asked. Snowflakes stuck to his eyelashes.

“More like keeper,” Sherlock responded. He blinked. What a mystery! This man was so captivating. Why?

“Really.”

“At least for tonight,” Sherlock said. “ I’d rather not talk about Lestrade...and relations...it might ruin our appetites.”

“Wouldn’t want to do that!”

“Here we are.”


	2. Chapter 2

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The doors of Angelo’s welcomed them. The owner immediately spotted Sherlock and his companion, whisking them off to the best table in the establishment. Candlelight and quiet.

“It is so nice to see you here, my boy! I will get my finest bottle of wine, and dinner is on the house! Order what you like. Only the best for Sherlock Holmes and his date.”

Sherlock checked the good doctor, who made no correction.

“Sherlock is a great man. He saved me from certain prison. I owe him my life. Have anything on our menu that you wish, but I suggest the saltimbocca. It is delectable, melts your the mouth.”

“That would be perfect,” John Watson said.

“I’ll have that also,” Sherlock agreed. “And your tiramisu afterward.”

“Perfect! I’ll leave you two alone! If you need anything, Sherlock, just call me.”

John laughed. “That was enlightening.” He tucked his napkin on his lap. “You don’t mind then, calling this a date? Not wed to your work?”

“In a fashion I am, but not for tonight.” Sherlock relaxed back in his seat and reflected for a moment: he was saying and doing the most out of character things around this John Watson.

“Earlier in the alley you said Lestrade was your keeper. Why do you need a keeper?”

“I have or should say, _had_ , a problem.”

“The addiction.”

“You surprise me Dr. Watson,” Sherlock said. "Very perceptive, I might add."

“Please, call me John.”

“John then. Call me Sherlock. It was what I said in the alley that gave it away.”

“Yes, and the way you treated the addict. And you said you have personal knowledge of life on the streets.”

“My addiction to opiates is something with which I still struggle...will always struggle, but the connections I made during that time have aided me.”

“I understand. I have my own issues I’ve struggled with.” This John was amazing. Sherlock thought he could forgive the doctor anything, even ending sentences with prepositions.

A waiter came with wine and glasses, poured and left the bottle on the table between them.

“Not much of a wine person; I’m more for a good pint, but this is nice.”

Sherlock tracked John’s movements as he swirled then lifted the glass under his nose, then sipped. Sherlock bit back a sigh. “Yes, this _is_ nice,” he said. _Very nice_. He couldn’t stop thinking: What was it about this unassuming man that Sherlock felt so drawn?

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Most likely Lestrade or worse, Mycroft, checking up on him. He ignored it.

“So, do you bring all your dates here?” John asked.

“No. I don’t do dates,” Sherlock said, scooting his chair closer to the table. “Until now.”

“Is this some sort of Christmas miracle?”

“I don’t believe in miracles,” Sherlock said. “At least, I didn’t.”  Sherlock found himself smiling as the waiter brought them their saltimbocca, plated to perfection. He watched the doctor take a bite and lick his lips. Incredible.

“I say, this is delicious!” He took another bite. “It’s sinful!”

“Yes, it is.”

“And the company is superb.”

“Yes, it is.”

John had fontina cheese on his lip, and his tongue flicked out to capture it. It was a mannerism Sherlock would never tire of watching.

  
“The evening has turned out so much better than I expected,” John smiled.

Sherlock threw back his head and laughed. His pocket vibrated again. Insistent. Could be Lestrade with a case. For the first time since he could remember, Sherlock didn’t care.

“What’s so funny?” John asked with a wide, sensuous grin.

“The irony. I’d expected a dull evening. Instead, here I am in the company…” he hesitated and almost said ‘of a most charming and fascinating man.’ Instead he continued with “of a contradiction. A healer and a warrior who longs for domesticity and danger.”

“I’d ask you to come home with me, but as you already know, I have a young daughter.”

Sherlock was taken aback. He was propositioning him! How delightful!

“And your babysitter couldn’t be coerced to stay the evening,” Sherlock said, sipping his wine.

“Well, it is Christmas Eve, and I really need to go home and check on Rosie.”

So his daughter’s name was Rosie? A curious name.

“We could stop at your home first, then go to mine.”

“This sounds so calculated.”

“Would you rather I play coy and hard to get?” Sherlock smiled. “I think not.”

“A sure thing is always good, just I don’t usually talk about the arrangements and such before hand.”

“I see: You like mysteries. I like mysteries. We will be good together.” Sherlock couldn’t believe he was talking like he was in one of those bad romantic comedies he abhorred.

“About mysteries…you were going to share some with me. I’d love to hear about your cases.”

With that, Sherlock began. John leaned across the table, ate and smiled and laughed. His myriad of facial expressions and verbal encouragements fed Sherlock’s addiction. The longer his stories, the more he craved John’s reactions.

“You haven’t eaten much but the tiramisu,” John observed.

“I don’t. Eat. Much.”

“Keeping up that svelte, graceful frame? I approve, but you still need eat. Here, have this last bite of my dessert.” John lifted a forkful of the sweet coffee confection and teased it up against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock’s mouth opened and the fork slipped in. Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut, and he gave an embarrassing moan that was muffled by John’s own deep groan. A swarm of bees now buzzed warm beneath Sherlock’s skin.

John sat back and gazed down with a smirk. “So. Cab?”

“Your place. Tuck in daughter Rosie. Make arrangements with your nanny. Then to mine.”

“Actually, I already called and made arrangements with her when I went off to the loo.”

“Hmm. Christmas Eve, she has family but will stay the evening. She resides near by.

“You are brilliant!”

“You keep saying that— it’s not what people usually tell me.”

“You aren’t appreciated? And you get told to piss off! I thought as much,” John said, standing. “Shall we?”

Sherlock found a smile on his face again, and it was most curious. He liked this John Watson. As they stepped outside, Sherlock was not surprised to see a black sedan. Sherlock threw his arm in front of John, blocking his way. “Don’t get inside. It’s a trap,” Sherlock said.

“Who is that?” John asked, pulling the collar up on his coat as it began to sleet.

“My adversary. He likes to think that he runs the free world or at least the British government.”

John bent down to get a closer look inside the tinted windows. “So, like an arch enemy? Nemesis? This is exciting! But why is Lieutenant Lestrade in the back seat with him? He seemed so honest.”

“What have I done to deserve this! Don’t answer that,” Sherlock said, spinning around dramatically, then stopped short upon seeing John’s hurt expression. “Not you! I wasn’t referring to you, although I probably don’t deserve you either.”

“The only people who aggravate me like this are family,” John said, half to himself. “But Mycroft Holmes would irritate anyone...wait? Holmes? He’s your brother!”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s mind whirled. He studied the man next to him closer: How could this John Watson know his brother?

The window rolled down, and Lestrade leaned out as Mycroft ordered, “Sherlock, would you and your _acquaintance_ please get inside.”

“I think we should get inside,” John said.

Sherlock blinked. Sleet covered the doctor’s hair and it sparkled. Sherlock shivered. John said that so forcefully, revealing the army captain beneath the doctor.

“Get in!” Lestrade said and the door flew open. Odd that Lestrade’s demands never had that same effect. “I don’t know how I put up with him. Your brother is insufferable!”

“Yes, he is,” Mycroft and Sherlock chimed together. John barked out a laugh and got in. Sherlock followed and grudgingly shut the door.

“My! Isn’t this cozy!” Mycroft said, clapping his hands together. Sherlock regretted buying those lambskin gloves for his brother last Christmas. He didn’t deserve them. “Nice to meet you, Doctor Watson. Gregory told me Sherlock had managed to snag a doctor. Mummy will be so proud!”

John hesitated before reaching over and shaking Mycroft’s hand. “Call me John.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. He knows John. How does he know John?

“Enough, Mycroft,” Lestrade said, patting him on the knee to get his attention.

“At least he didn’t kidnap you,” Sherlock said.

“Kidnap me?” John said. “Well, um...”

Lestrade threw John a puzzled look. Sherlock pursed his lips.

“Yes, Mycroft, why _are_ you doing this?” Sherlock asked.

“Mycroft. This isn’t a good idea at all,” Lestrade said.

“Your place or _John’s_?” Mycroft asked with an exaggerated lift of his brows. He completely ignored Greg. Sherlock didn’t know how Lestrade tolerated him.

“My place,” John said, then rattled off his address to the driver.

“Very well. Let the interrogation begin!” Sherlock announced. “Don’t you have enough to do? No governments to overthrow, no secret operatives to terminate?”

“I don’t believe this is happening,” John said.

“You don’t have to answer one question,” Sherlock returned to John.

John’s mouth opened then shut, which made Sherlock wonder even more.

“I don’t need to ask him, little brother. I already know everything about the good Doctor Watson with one tiny exception…”

“Don’t ask him!” Sherlock said, voice raising. “Don’t you dare ask him!”

“I don’t believe this. I just don’t believe this,” John repeated. “Am I in some hidden camera TV series?”

“Between his assassinations and sabotages, Mycroft lives vicariously through me. He can’t keep his big, fat nose out of my business.”

“Sherlock. I do care what happens to you, and I have only your best interests at heart.”

“Stop it,” Lestrade said. “Just let them out.”

“There is one tidbit of information that I could not procure regarding the doctor that both I and Mummy would like to know.”

“Mummy?!” Sherlock said. “You talked to Mummy?! I only met him a few hours ago!”

“Do keep up. I already made it clear that Mummy is involved.” Mycroft tapped the seat with his umbrella. “Proof that I am the _smarter_ brother.”

“But Mummy loves me more.” Sherlock sat back in his seat.

“Please stop,” Lestrade said, rubbing his hands over his face. “How do I get myself between you two and your endless sibling rivalry?”

“I will get to the point, Doctor Watson. _John_. The loss of Sherlock’s virginity is a monumental occasion.”

“Shut up! No, no, no, no, NO! This is not happening!” Sherlock shouted and panicked. He need to get away! He reached over to open the door, but John’s hand stopped him.

“Mummy and I just wanted _you_ to understand the significance of this occasion, and what your intentions are regarding my little brother.”

“Mycroft! Your brother maybe a virgin, but he’s not innocent,” Lestrade said.

While John sat speechless, Sherlock sat in shock and wondered if he was having an out of body experience.

“When it comes to the matters of the heart, he most certainly is innocent. Do I have to remind you of Irene Adler?” Mycroft ignored Lestrade’s glare and reached over and tapped his umbrella against John’s knee. “Please. What exactly _are_ your intentions with my brother?”

“I don’t see that it’s any of your business,” John said.

“And there is the matter of your _late_ wife...” Mycroft added.

“And that really isn’t any of your business!” John shouted.

“He’s right, Mycroft,” Lestrade said. “Drop it.”

Mycroft’s face turned sour. “I have every right to ask! You, of all people, Gregory, should know that I rarely interfere in Sherlock’s life.”

“What?! You love interfering in Sherlock’s life! You enjoy interfering in everyone’s lives! It’s a hobby for you!” Lestrade said.

“It is not!” Mycroft said, wielding his umbrella like a saber.

“Mycroft stop it. It’s all for the best. Look at it like this,” Lestrade said, grabbing the umbrella. “You can’t micromanage his life forever. They’re going to shag. We both know that Sherlock needs a good shag. After that, it’s up to them. They _are_ adults. God knows Sherlock could use his own personal doctor! And for god’s sake, maybe he could bring the doctor with him to Christmas and keep Sherlock from ruining it again like last year.”

“Enough about my personal life,” Sherlock said. “And John is _not_ coming to Christmas at Mummy and Dad’s. I would never put my worst enemy through that!”

“To save yourself from the boredom and my company,” Mycroft said, “I think you would go to all sorts of ends.”

Sherlock crossed his arms.

“I do hope we understand each other, _John_.” Mycroft said, snatching his umbrella back from Greg.

“Yes, perfectly,” John said.

Sherlock was relieved when the sedan stopped in front of the address John had given. “Do not wait for us,” Sherlock said. “We will get a cab from here.”

“I think that’s our invitation to leave,” Lestrade said. “Take it, Mycroft, or you can spend Christmas by yourself.”

The sedan’s door slammed shut and drove off, leaving them shoulder to shoulder. John thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets, shrugged and looked up at Sherlock. “Is it true? You’re a virgin?”

“It’s not something I want to talk to you about on the street,” Sherlock frowned. “Or anywhere else for that matter.”

“Oh, we’ll talk about it. But you’re right, this isn’t the place.”

Sherlock felt his heart drop. “I can just call a cab if you’ve changed your mind,” Sherlock said.

“I haven’t changed my mind at all, but if you have, I’d understand.” John unlocked the door and opened it wide, inviting him inside.

“I haven’t.”

Sherlock was anxious to learn more about John, but the entryway was as nondescript as the front of the apartment building. The steep stairs were poorly lit and revealed little. He followed him up the stairway. The living area, however, unfolded a mass of information. His late wife’s art deco hands were on much of the furnishing, but Sherlock spied little touches of the doctor about: dog-eared paperback detective novels filled an old bookcase, old rosewood perpetual calendar wall clock that most certainly belonged to a grandparent kept time, and a beat up floral wingback chair with tatty footrest sat waiting for Dr. Watson to take the weight of the world off his feet. An old plaid blanket was slung over the back of the chair.

A real tree with twinkling lights and ornaments, many handmade, stood in the corner. A few of the brightly wrapped presents spilled out on to the hardwood floor. Mistletoe hung in the doorway. A glass of milk with a plate biscuits sat on the fireplace mantel where two stockings hung.

John’s nanny was an older woman, and Sherlock eavesdropped as John filled her in on his foiled date. He’d immediately deduced that she was not merely a nanny. She lived downstairs. Her teasing familiar tone with John spoke of a deep friendship. She gave Sherlock a sly once over, then a wink as John introduced him. It was most uncomfortable to be left alone with her while John got a few “things” and checked in on Rosie. His mind pitched and rocked over what those “things” might entail.

She excused herself to make a quick call and was back in a dash. “I’m so very sorry,” she said. “I thought I could get out of it, but I simply can’t. My sister is on her way to pick me up. We’re to spend Christmas together at her place. I’m afraid she must have already left.”

John came into the room with a bag in hand.

“I’m so sorry, I was just explaining to Mr. Holmes that I can’t stay, John.”

“Her sister is already on her way here,” Sherlock explained.

“And it is Christmas Eve, John. I so sorry I can’t be with you and Rosie in the morning to open gifts. I can’t believe she left this early. I so thought I could catch her.”

“Yes, that’s quite all right, Mrs. Hudson.”

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	3. Chapter 3

“I’ll make some coffee while I wait,” Mrs. Hudson said, leaving the two alone. “But just remember to clean up the kitchen, John. You left it a mess this morning! I’m not your housekeeper.”

Disappointment washed over Sherlock— John wasn’t coming home with him, and he couldn’t stay here. It was Christmas Eve, John had a daughter. Responsibilities. “I will call a cab,” he said.

“No! I mean, stay!” John barked out. “Would you like some coffee?” John yawned, then yawned again, covering his mouth. “Sorry. I’m not bored or tired. I...God...I can’t seem to stop...”

John wanted him here! He felt alive again. The possibilities! He hadn’t felt this giddy and excited when he wasn’t at a crime scene in years.

“Excessive yawning often happens during a state of nervousness or anxiety,” Sherlock said, unable to stop himself. “Increased heart rate, respiration, and the tightening of the body's muscles contribute to this. The body can recover relatively quickly. You should cease yawning momentarily.”

“Brilliant. Nice to know.”

“Excessive talking also is common in situations when people are nervous. Not that I’m nervous. Also, not meeting another person in the eye…” and with that comment, they faced each other awkwardly, their eyes lifted from the floor and locked.

“Well, that’s also brilliant,” John said, licking his lips. “It would be a shame not to look into your eyes.”

With a wink, John lead Sherlock into his kitchen, all lemon yellow and bright. He smiled as he pulled a chair out for Sherlock. Before sitting down himself, he thanked Mrs. Hudson as a knock came to the door below.

“That would be my sister. My, I just don’t believe she drove here tonight,” she said, giving John a kiss on the cheek. “You two stay put. I’ll be seeing you on next Wednesday then, John.”

Sherlock heard her walk down the stairs. He turned to John, who was licking his lips. My God, Sherlock thought, that would be his undoing.

“She makes the best coffee,” John said. “You were right that she has relatives and lives near me. She’s my landlady and lives downstairs. She is like family. More than my mum. I don’t know what Rosie and I would have done without her.”

Obviously, John needed to make small talk to avoid the elephant in the room. Sherlock chose to ignore the elephant too.

“It’s always something,” Sherlock agreed. “This coffee is very good. Mrs. Ellison, my landlady, also makes an excellent cuppa.”

“Mrs. Hudson tells me I make the best tea,” he said modestly.

“I am sure you are very good at tea.” Sherlock decided to take a chance. He took a deep breath.  “Let me deduce your process: First, you take special care to collect and set out all necessary materials. You _prepare_ the cup before hand. With utmost care, you warm it, until it’s ready. You never just heat the water. You boil it. Rolling, heat. You add the water _slowly_ to the tea bag. Timing is everything, isn’t it John? And you like it _strong and hot_. So you steep the tea inside the cup...the longer, the better, until at last you can taste it thick on your lips. The taste lingers. John? I like mine _sweet_.”

“We’re not talking about tea anymore, are we?”

“No.”

“Has anyone ever told you that your voice is pornographic?”

“No. Never. It’s arousing to know that my voice has that effect on you. Has anyone ever told you that you have sensuous lips? I have filthy thoughts when ever you lick them.”

“No. Well. I have a few nasty thoughts myself when I look at yours.”

Sherlock felt the heat between his legs grow. “Your room is upstairs. Shall we?”

“What your brother Mycroft said earlier…”

“Please don’t bring up his name.” Sherlock noted the concern on the doctor’s face. “It’s a bucket of ice water! Do not concern yourself with what he said. I want this.”

“Sherlock. I like you. Well, more than like you.” John bit his lip. “I don’t want this to be a one off, and it shouldn’t be if it’s your first time. Although I don’t know why you’ve chosen me for this honor. I am, honored, that is. But I want you to know, I’d like this to go beyond just tonight if that’s what you’d like.”

“I would like that very much.” Sherlock held out his hand. “Enough talk. Upstairs.”

John agreed, thankfully, but first he said he needed to play Santa. John made two trips up and down the stairs, adding to the colorful gifts beneath the tree. He shared the milk and biscuits with Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson’s biscuits were better than his landlady’s. He hated leaving one behind, half-eaten on the tray.

John’s room was not a surprise. It was immediately evident to Sherlock that this was once the nursery and that John Watson had not the time nor the inclination to redecorate it after his late wife’s death. The master bedroom that had become his daughter’s was either too painful or too inconvenient for him to sleep in downstairs. Best his daughter be on downstairs. Even then, his bed did not look slept in, and Sherlock surmised that John Watson spent more nights sleeping in the living room on the couch than in this bedroom.

John scratched the back of his neck. Ahh. Why had he not seen it! Sherlock realized he was not the only one who was nervous. This was the first time for John as well!

“You have not been with anyone since your wife’s passing.”

“No and yes. Not anything meaningful.”

Meaningful! Bees began buzzing under his skin again. He blinked. “There is something else...it is about your wife. That is how you knew Mycroft.”

“You realized?”

“I suspected. But you’ve just confirmed it, and if she was involved in anything with my brother, it could not have been good.”

“Yes, I might as well tell you since your brother will anyway. I’m surprised he didn’t earlier.” John rubbed his face, then sat on the edge of the bed. “Take a seat— this will take a bit.”

A sense of disappointment welled up in Sherlock, but he knew this was necessary for them to go forward. He needed to know what the connection between John and his brother was.

“She, Mary, wasn’t like _that_ when I met her. She was kind, thoughtful. She left the life she once had behind, or so she believed— at least she tried her best to leave it there. She wasn’t who she pretended to be. To be blunt, she was an assassin. Worked for the highest bidder. She tried to retire, but it’s an occupation people never are able to retire from. God knows she tried her best to hide what she was. She fooled me. I probably never knew who she was. I met Mr. Holmes, your brother, just before she was...killed. Don’t look at me like that. Your brother wasn’t responsible. He was just there when it happened or should I say, when it all went down.”

This was most unexpected. An assassin for a wife. Nothing in his home had suggested such a connection. “Her past caught up with her.”

“Yes.” John sighed.

“And how did it all go down?” Sherlock realized his mistake too late. He’d pushed too far as always. His mouth made it inevitable that any romantic entanglement would fail. He’d ruined the mood with John! But he had to know.

“She told me, or should I say, she confessed it all to me about a year before she was killed. I left her and lived with my sister for a time. But she was pregnant. What was I going to do? I did love her, at least the woman I thought I married. I wanted to keep our family together. So I moved back here.”

“I am sorry John. If you want me to leave…”

“No. It’s not your fault that I married an assassin, and you could hardly be blamed for your own brother sticking his nose in our business. He actually tried to help Mary. I honestly don’t know why he became involved other than her last job had to do with some criminal mastermind she’d worked for before she tried to drop out of sight.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. Moriarty. She’d worked for Moriarty.

“He couldn’t protect her in the end,” John continued. “Your brother isn’t a bad sort. He did tell me that caring is not an advantage. He sure doesn’t follow his own advice. Look how he cares for you and that lieutenant of his.”  John looked up at Sherlock and moved closer to John on the bed. “In the end though, we can’t choose our family. God, knows I would have made different choices if I could. My sister is a mess. Please don’t go ‘deducing’ my family just yet. That would be a bit not good.”

“I do that a lot.”

“I know. It’s how we met.” John let his hand rest on Sherlock’s thigh and mouth curled up a bit. “And I’m glad you did.” Every cell in Sherlock’s body came to life with that touch and smile. Sherlock took courage and rested his hand on top of John’s and helped John inch it up his thigh. He let his eyes flutter shut as he brought John’s hand higher and pressed it against his crotch. He was surprised to hear his own groan resonate through the room.

John shifted closer, mouth close to Sherlock’s ear. “You are a gorgeous man. Makes me wonder why you’re still a virgin. You said you were married to your work, but that’s taking it a bit far.”

“I didn’t think it was until recently. Today, actually.” Sherlock barely got the words out. He was so hard under John’s hand--he felt he will burst. John Watson’s fingers scratched over his cock, up and down its length, teasing.

“May I,” John said, as his fingers grasped his zip. Sherlock moaned yes, or he believed that’s what came from his mouth. He didn’t know because it’s like his world has exploded, all from John Watson’s touch and the sound of his zipper. “No pants. You naughty boy.” Sherlock gasped as John’s wicked smile melted Sherlock to a puddle on the bed.

“Maybe you should punish me.” After, Sherlock reflected on what he’d said. He wanted it. Oh, how he wanted it, but the punishment felt more like torture as John’s finger ran from the base of his cock to the tip, then down again.

“Tell me to stop if it’s too much,” John said, getting on his knees on the floor between his legs, the breath from John’s mouth warm against his cock.

In that moment, Sherlock wondered what had changed in his life that made him want this man so much. He was also a man with urges, but they were urges he was always able to suppress. His body was just transport. Until this moment, he had denied his libido. He’d ignored that woman, Irene Adler. He had been tempted, as fascinating as she was, but he could say no. With John Watson, he found he did not want to say no. For the first time in Sherlock’s life, he knew what longing for someone meant.

His mouth left and John sat up between his legs, reached up and tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s curls. He drew Sherlock down to his mouth. Sherlock knew as John’s lips hovered just above his that John had more words he’d like to say, and questions he wished to ask, but for now, John knew what needed to be done. Sherlock ached to feel John’s stubble burning his skin.

As he pressed his lips on Sherlock’s, John found his words through action. His insistent pressure crushed Sherlock’s core. He found his own lips opening on their own in a rush. John pushed him gently flat to the bed, following him. Sherlock’s body knew what it wanted even if Sherlock didn’t. He rolled his hips against John, the feel of the hard chest and muscled forearms holding him, making his insides weak. Sherlock gasped as John thrust his hips in answer.

Sherlock heard the foreign groans that came from inside him. He relished John’s hot breath damping his neck as the rock-hard cock trapped inside his trousers tried to burst through. Damn clothes. Sherlock needed to get all of them out of the way.

Like a psychic shot, John had the same idea. Sherlock couldn’t help but think how brilliant the man was. John sat back on his heels and stripped his shirt, then stood and removed his trousers. Sherlock missed the heat and push and pull on his body, but it was replaced with a deep flush as he examined John’s form. A liquid rush filled him as he took in his jutting cock and heavy bollocks. As John’s hands tugged off Sherlock's trousers over the points of his hips, Sherlock got a chance to inspect John’s scar on his shoulder. In it, he saw a universe of possibilities.

Suddenly John stopped and watched Sherlock quietly between his legs that hung off the end of the bed. Sherlock waited, worrying how he looked to John. Was he too thin, too pale? Was his cock shaped the way John liked? John noted the distress in Sherlock’s eyes and smiled, then said, “Beautiful.” After, he crept back into his space, and Sherlock felt no hesitation in John’s hands or lips. He relaxed as the healing fingers found their way back into his hair, then wrapped him up inside those thick biceps.

John pushed down, fitting all Sherlock’s sharp, pointed edges into his hard and rounded ones. He found Sherlock's mouth again. This time Sherlock opened up, his own tongue answering and exploring all the corners he'd never knew existed. So brilliant. Then John proved that was nothing compared to what came next as he gripped both of Sherlock's shoulders, aligned their cocks and thrusted. He felt set ablaze. The heat in John’s eyes put an inferno in his heart.

What was happening?! As he held John’s gaze, Sherlock felt almost bashful! Having John looking at him reverently, studying Sherlock like he had studied so many others over the years. More than that. Like he was some enigmatic masterpiece. The bed springs groaned. Slowly, Sherlock touched his face. He allowed his fingers to move across John’s brow, trail down his jaw, then touch his lips like a feather. John shivered and rutted against him. No man or woman Sherlock had ever known deserved such a touch. John allowed him to explore his scar, allowed his to discover the ridges on his spine. He wanted to know everything that was John Watson. He wanted it all.

John must have sensed it and started a steady grind, arms propped against the bed.

So this was what it was like to give in to the pleasure and pain of it all? to have his heart rubbed raw? With every slide and push, their cocks became desperate. He did want it all! He wanted John to take him and make him into something new. If he didn’t say something soon, it would be too late.

"John, stop!”

He did. Immediately.

“What’s wrong? Are we going too fast?”

“Yes. No. I am about to come. I want you to...I want…” Sherlock was shocked. He could barely find the words. “I want you inside me.”

“Yes. God, yes.” Then with great care, John reached for some lubricant from the dresser beside bed and applied it to his fingers, his hands, his cock. John slipped down Sherlock’s chest, a finger testing his pucker.

“Breathe, Sherlock. I don’t want this to hurt. And remember, we can stop at any time.”

Sherlock nodded. John opened him slowly, one finger, then two and caressed him. Sherlock knew the science of sex, how John was stimulating his prostate. Then why did it feel as if this was so much more? That John’s mending fingers were healing a part of him he never even knew was broken? He withdrew his fingers, leaving behind an empty ache.

Face to face, John’s cock pushed inside with one slow, smooth thrust, Sherlock welcomed the pain John provided. His chest became tight. Air escaped from his nostrils in righteous pleasure, and he let his mouth clamp over the scar on John’s shoulder to keep from crying out. His mind rolled with the enormity of the moment— it was possible he might have never known this moment if he never met this man, this John Watson. His world would never have felt this alive, this pure, this perfect.

John began to move, taking his time, savoring the tightness. Sherlock knows it's coming as John finds that spot with in him. John’s hand grasps Sherlock cock, and he is undone.

Sherlock can’t believe it, but he begins to beg. _More, more_. John shifts his thrusts, moving to that spot that makes Sherlock whimper into John’s shoulder. They both go to that place that Sherlock never realized he’d been so afraid of and so longed for. Sherlock didn’t know he had the words in him, but he said them. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice deep and rich. “Thank you, John.”

The next morning Sherlock woke up to oddly familiar surroundings. He knew he’d never slept in this bed before, but it was like he belonged. The sun wasn’t up, but he could see snow falling and the flakes melt against the pane and the frost covering the window to a new world outside. John’s laughter along with delighted squeals, echoed from downstairs. The light from the stairway illuminated the end of the bed where John had left a bathrobe for him like an offering.

 _Ah, yes,_ it was Christmas.

Sherlock put on the robe that smelled delightfully like John and retrieved his cell from his trousers, then softly stepped down the stairs. Despite his stealth, a groan from one of the bottom steps let them know he was there. Twin blonde heads popped up, albeit one tinged with flecks of grey.

“Morning,” John said, standing up and smiling wide. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Sherlock said in return as two sets of curious big blue eyes looked upon him. John sat back down next to his daughter on the floor, a Thomas the Train set in pieces surrounded her along with bits of colorful paper and ribbons. “And you must be Rosie. Merry Christmas, Rosie.”

“Merry Kermit-nass!” she said, holding up a piece train track to show Sherlock, and the feet in her fuzzy blue pyjamas bobbed up and down in excitement.

“She doesn’t have a speech impediment. It’s an old joke. She’s always said Christmas like that. Coffee?” John offered, kissing the top of Rosie’s head and getting up. “Or I can make tea,” he said suggestively. “Somebody doesn’t need waking up, but I sure need caffeine. I’ll get us some. How do you like it?”

“Two sugars, thank you,” Sherlock said, starting to stand, but Rosie hand took hold of the robe and tugged him down. “I said I liked it sweet.”

“Yeah, you did. And you are.” John smirked then left to get them a cup.

“Thomas the Train needs our help,” she said, pointing to Thomas. Sherlock chuckled as he watched her study the the pieces of wooden track in her hands like they contained the mystery of the universe.

“Yes, he does.” He took a piece of track, then watched as Rosie set her two pieces on the floor and snapped them together to the rest of the track and continued snapping pieces in a complicated pattern that interconnected with precision. It seemed that John’s daughter was as brilliant as he was. “You’re very good at helping Thomas.”

She beamed up at him with eyes like John’s. A lump in his throat appeared and tears stung the back of his eyes. What was wrong with him?

“Are you okay?” John asked, handing him the coffee.

“I don’t know what’s come over me,” he admitted. He blinked and looked down.

“I think I do,” John said. Kneeling beside him, he brought his finger under Sherlock’s chin and lifted it up until he met John’s eyes. In them, he saw the same tears. “It’s us. This room, this place. It feels...right.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Like, I don’t know— it sounds corny— like this was supposed to happen. Like we belong here in this room together.”

Sherlock’s cell buzzed in his pocket. He hesitated, then brought it out.

“That was Mycroft. He wants to pick me up to go to Mummy and Dad’s.”

“That’s spooky. How did he know you were even awake? It’s six in the morning!”

“John, you have a four year old daughter. It is Christmas. Even Mycroft remembers what it was like as a child on Christmas morning.”

“Sherlock, don’t go. You can stay here. I want you to stay.”

“Thank you John, but I don’t want to intrude.”

Rosie stood up and made herself at home on Sherlock’s lap and patted his cheek.

“Sherlock, you git. Didn’t you understand what I just said to you a moment ago?”

Sherlock wanted to understand. He really did. He hoped he did.

“I want you to stay. Not just for Christmas.”

Mrs. Hudson was correct. John made the best tea he’d ever tasted.

“How do you feel about the violin?”

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Today, Dec. 25, 6:58 AM

**Tell Mycroft not to send his car. Not coming. SH**

 

**You should be texting Mycroft about this, not me. GL**

 

**Please make my excuses. SH**

 

**I always make excuses for you. How about the truth for a change? GL**

 

Today, Dec. 25, 7:32 AM

**Greg told me you are not coming. You are still with John Watson. Mummy will wonder. MH**

 

**John said to tell Mummy that he has the most honorable of intentions. SH**

 

Today, Dec. 25, 9:03 AM

**For future reference, I am changing my place of residence. Send gifts to 221B Baker Street. Please tell Mummy to start on sweater for next year. Oatmeal. Size medium. SH**

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**Author's Note:**

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> 
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